Forever After
by heartbrokenhappiness
Summary: The rebellion is over and Panem now appears to be thriving under its new democratic rule.  Have the rebels really won, though? They have their own dictators and fiends to overcome...each and every one of them.
1. Johanna

Johanna

Goddamn it, I hate this place. Three years later and they're still in those black uniforms mourning her. And I thought the gray was bad. Most of the time I just want to shake them, tell them to snap out of it, and remind them of the favor that Little Miss Everdeen did for them. But no-they're still the mindless robots with fluorescent ink stamped on their arms, eating the stupidest-sized portions the world has seen.

I want to leave. I've wanted to leave since, they carted me back here after Coin fell-literally-but the doctors keep telling me I'm unstable. That if let out I'd turn to dicing up my wrists and worse. Either they're blind or just want to keep me captive here, because no one mentions the growing number of scars over my body, of the yellow stains and extreme sagging of my skin, of my caved-in appearance. My guess is they're just blind. These people only see what they want to see, only pay attention to the most random, unimportant details out there.

And I don't even know why I'm here. The last I remember of being in the Capitol was laughing with such glee and enjoyment as Mockingjay shot Coin-they tell me I was nearly killed in the stampede towards Snow that followed and was brought back to 13. Apparently I needed the "familiarity" of my old quarters and psychologists. Crazy shit, all of it. Nothing's the same here. And yet everything is. I'm not even being treated except to be kept alive. If I wasn't so out of it all the time, maybe I'd be catching on to some insane conspiracy theory 13 has going. It wouldn't surprise me. But I'm always either plagued by nightmares, both asleep and awake, drugged up on morphling or some other substance, or nearly comatose.

Maybe I wouldn't be well or happy in 7, but how well or happy can I be holed up in a white, completely sterilized room here in 13 forever? This has got to be illegal. It's like I'm a prisoner again. Next thing I know they'll be torturing me and screaming for information I didn't even know existed. They already do in my dreams.

The only escape is the morphling. They stopped giving it to me on a regular basis years ago, but I find ways to knock myself out of consciousness-bang my head against a wall, scrape my arms and legs along my much too dull bed frame in order to bleed as much as possible, I've even broken my ankle on purpose before. When I come back to consciousness, I find a small set of pills on the table next to me, or if I'm lucky, an IV bag and tube plugged into me. Only enough for a couple of hours, though, and then I'll be lucky if I get more in a week. Looking forward to the break from the nightmares of semi-sanity it brings me, the drug is all that keeps me from knocking myself off for good. The unknown of death scares me too much, I admit it, but the reliability of the morphling gives me something to look forward to.

And I hate it. I hate being dependant on anything at all. I want them to let me go, to let me go to the familiarity of 7 where I can get involved with the black market of drugs and have morphling on hand whenever I need it-which will presumably be always.

There are no familiar faces here, only the doctors. And even then they're always shuffling them around so I never see one for longer than a month. What I'd give to see anyone from the rebellion or before again, even dumb old Mockingjay. I wonder where she is often. If she's even alive. I assume she is, because I know I would have heard if she'd died. I doubt her and Peeta are morphling addicts. And of course they're together, probably surviving day to day back in the ruins of 12. There's no where else they'd go, and I know they couldn't get along without each other. Star-crossed lovers as always, of course. Even if he has homicidal rampages sometimes, which I doubt. His love for her was so sickeningly strong that even mutt venom couldn't have kept it down for long.

Then my thoughts occasionally drift to Annie. She's the only person, besides Peeta, that I can actually wish happiness on. It's hard not to, after hearing their screams echo around the Capitol's torture chambers, mingling with my own, for those months that I did.

No, none of them have turned to the morphling. Only me. The weak one, the one who can't even wash herself without being completely drugged out of it and scrubbed by foreign hands. I disgust myself, both physically and mentally.

And then, even though I clearly can't survive on my own, I know that I need to get out of here. If I have to die, I'd rather it be in the woods of 7 than strapped to a flat, metallic bed of 13. A place that isn't even supposed to exist.

* * *

**This story will include most surviving main rebels and will follow HG canon to the absolute best of my ability. Obviously, this chapter was just a prologue and they will hopefully get longer.**

**Also, if you wouldn't mind, I would absolutely love to know how you all think I did regarding the writing style of this...is it too forced? I'm looking to capture Johanna in the style that I think SC would and please let me know if it seems too contrived. :)**

**And, of course, I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form.**


	2. Gale

Gale

_Tap. Tap. Click. Tap-tap-flick-click-SEND._

One done…seventy-nine to go. When Paylor approached me about taking over Beetee's old post, Secretary of Defense, I imagined a return to the glory days, if those days could be considered glorious. You know, top-secret files, meeting with double agents, approving and disproving new battle techniques. Well, the files _were_ considered "top-secret," but there was nothing_ secret_ about them. According to one of the lower secretaries, Damiel, there's no need for double agents anymore, since there's so much national unity going around…it makes sense, I guess. The same goes for battle techniques. Though I can't say I miss those much.

It's monotonous. I feel guilty complaining about anything at all these days-not that I ever haven't-but it's the truth. Desk jobs aren't my thing-I don't like having to sit still for long periods of time, I don't like sitting in front of a screen all day long, and everyone I work with is rather dull. I don't know how Beetee could stand it. I soothe my conscience by telling it that, really, I'm just stating facts. I'm an outdoors person if there ever was one.

It's not like I really _can_ be one here in District 2, anyway. It would be even worse in the Capitol, where Paylor originally stationed me. I told her no. I couldn't imagine having to work in _that place_. That place where so many suffered and died, where so many people I know-knew-suffered and died. That's not to say people here in District 2 didn't get hurt and blown to bits either, though. One could argue that I had more of a hand in their deaths here than I did in the Capitol if they wished and they'd be right. It doesn't affect me here, though. I didn't know anyone here, didn't care for anyone here-quite the opposite, actually.

Does that make me a bad person? Does that place me on the level of the Capitol idiots; the old, now dead Gamemakers, even Snow? It's not that I don't consider these thoughts. They flood through my mind every night. But those are my thoughts, it's how I differentiate between District 2 and the Capitol, how I allow myself to live here and be able to live with it myself. Sort of like how, no matter how hard I try, the complaints about the blasted desk job never stop singing in my head.

And of course, it's a good job. I'm technically third in the succession for president of Panem should anything happen to Paylor or the vice president, some high-ranking official from 13. Let's hope that I'll never have to be it. Because Paylor is the closest Panem will ever have to a decent leader, and I don't want to envision the situation where both President and Vice President are killed. Chances are if that happens I'm a goner myself. I'm not quite sure how to feel about that thought.

But I'll never have to worry about anything in the foreseeable future, monetarily, nor will my family. The _foreseeable future_, of course. Thoughts of an unspeakable tragedy, a new uprising, another insane person taking control of the country all flood through my mind at night and will never truly let me not worry again. Not that I never had reason not to worry.

To be honest, I don't have much reason to be happy, either. I've long given up on that dream. But I can be content. Peaceful. I can make sure Posy and hopefully even Vick can live in a world where the thought of a barbaric tradition such as the Hunger Games would stun them to silence. Rory's too far gone. He's stained with the horrors that the old world brought about-the countless horrors that were suffered in 12. But he's coping, too. I heard that he took up work at the hospital in 13, where they all stayed after the rebellion ended. I guess my mother didn't want to go back to 12.

Not that I can blame her. I didn't go back myself.

But I wouldn't make a difference there-maybe in terms of 12's rebuilding, which I've heard is almost finished now, I could, but not in a national sense. And regardless of how much I want to, I can't stick my head in the sand and lead a happy little life, holed up in my old district, trying to forget it all. Everything. Every last bit of it. That's just not possible, because if we all did that, history would be doomed to repeat itself.

So I'm here in 2. Determined that Panem will never fall to how I've seen it again, and playing file tag with a bunch of strangers to ensure that that doesn't happen.

* * *

**Kindly forget what I mentioned about a "prologue" last chapter...:P I've since decided to go into the mindset and sanity of the main characters of this piece, so that'll take at least one more chapter, which'll be short-ish as well. The plot IS coming, though, so please hang in there. ;) Thank you to everyone who's read so far, and I'd like to send a special thank you to "Brittany" for reviewing. :D**


	3. Peeta

Peeta

I pull the final loaves of bread out of the oven, set them on the counter, and go about cleaning up the mess I made.

It's only 5:00 AM and there's already a few dozen baked goods lining my countertops. Katniss is probably already deep into the woods, with countless game slung over her shoulder and dangling from traps. And Haymitch…is still sleeping. He will be until 5:00 tonight when I go over and wake him up, keep him semi-functioning.

It's just the three of us, living day-to-day. Well, of course there's about 500 others or so living in 12, and running the town's only bakery I do come in contact with them, but it's just as if I'm going through the motions with them all. I only care about Katniss and Haymitch. I may walk into town at times, and even more rarely, venture a few yards into the woods, but my life only really exists along the strip of land still known as "The Victors' Village." I don't really want it any other way for now.

I have all this food ready, but I'm not selling it today. It's Sunday, the day of the week that everyone in 12 takes as a day off now that the district has been nearly 100-percent rebuilt. So technically, Katniss and I should be following Haymitch's and the rest of the town's lead, and be asleep. But neither of us see much point in staying trapped in our nightmares longer than necessary, so we get just enough sleep to function. We go to bed rather early, though, to make up for it-we don't see much point in staying awake and living among the ghosts longer than necessary, either.

So where's the point in life? We can't stand being asleep, we can't stand being awake, and we aren't guaranteed the company of any of us all of the time. I never know when I'm about to slip from consciousness, my mind to plummet to the most unexplainable, nonsensical thoughts and give way to the demons. Katniss so rarely gets a full night's sleep and is always bound to wake up, thrashing and screaming out the names of all who've died, at least once, twice a night. Where's the point in life? Katniss and Haymitch may beg to differ, but I think that the point in life are those moments that fit themselves in between the depression and anxiety. You know, getting a photograph every few months of little Finn. Watching the Meadow spring back to life all on its own. The primroses never failing to bloom once the last bit of winter snow melts away. 12 bouncing back from the bombing.

The way I look at it, if we were dead, we wouldn't see any of those moments firsthand at all. We probably wouldn't even know they'd existed. So we weather the storm, and get enthralled with the patches of sunlight that pops up along the way.

Sunlight. I walk into the entryway and turn the blinds open, watching it pour in through the slots. I can see Haymitch's house, identical to this house-turned-bakery and mine and Katniss's next door.

Oh, Haymitch. The subject of many a late-night conversation between Katniss and I. But…if his time in 13 didn't keep him sober, nothing will. Forcing him clean would only benefit us, not him. It's as good a guess as any that if he dropped dead from liver failure tomorrow he'd be just as happy for it.

We try and keep him going, Katniss and I. We do it for us just as much for him. I figure we'd go truly insane if we didn't have another person in our presence, but any more than Haymitch and the occasional visit from Greasy Sae and her remaining family drag us down.

We invite him over most nights, and he'll come a couple of times a week, sober or not. He and Katniss play chess by the fire and I'll be painting. When he's sober he wins, when he's drunk she lets him win.

Despite the quiet atmosphere and the nearly tragic mood, those evenings leave us all a bit more contented than before. We just live in the moment and try to put everything else behind us. Sometimes it actually works.

I think I could live like this forever. It's a better life than it seems even to me, and it's the best life I'll get at this point. Katniss. Haymitch. Baking. Painting. Heck, Buttercup and the geese add to my quality of living.

Most of my memories are recovered, which is both a blessing and a curse. But I would undoubtedly live all the horrors I've been through over again just to retain my memories of Katniss without breaking a wall. And whenever I'm unsure I just ask. I think Katniss likes taking her mind off of her mind for a minute and focusing on another's. I should probably ask her. When she's done hunting.

So, here we exist. There. That's the word. We exist.

And the one thing I remember is that life is not fair, but it goes on.

* * *

**So I guess I'm on a roll today. :P I have 1000+ words of the actual plot written as well, and that might come up within a day, too. I'm debating whether or not to do an intro with Annie-what do you all think? I'd also like to just let you know that the actual title of this story is "[Happily] Ever After," but the story uploader wouldn't let me use brackets or parentheses, and I detest the way plain "Happily Ever After" looks. I'm picky, I know.**

**So I'm taking suggestions for the title of this piece, because I'm not the fondest of "Ever After," either. Suggest away!**


	4. Definitely Not Morphling

Johanna

I lie in bed-where else would I be?-coming in and out of a drugged-up state of consciousness. Whatever they've put into me isn't morphling or anything of the sort. It doesn't do a thing to numb the pain my scratched, raw ankles are throbbing with. They forgot to clip and file my toenails again, and they've paid for it.

Not that I mind the pain. But this drug flowing freely from the IV tube into my bloodstream does nothing to satisfy my morphling craving which is one thing that I _do_ mind.

I'm just drifting in and out of sanity, occasionally feeling the flow of liquid through my veins, occasionally not, when I hear voices outside. It's not an uncommon occurrence, but I when I hear them, I try and see if I can distinguish if it's in my head or not. _Real or not real?_

No, I'm not playing Peeta. I'm not trying to regain whatever's left of my former self, of a normal sanity. I just want to know if the voices belong to someone who might bring me some damn morphling!

"Here's where the permanent patients are kept," a man's voice says.

So they're giving tours now, eh? Showing the "permanent patients" off like zoo animals I suppose. If I could lift my head I'd probably see a newly-implanted wall of glass, showcasing me to all of 13 and beyond. How lovely.

"'Permanent patients'? As in chronically ill?" comes another voice. Another man.

Ha. Haha.

"Some are. Others are deemed unfit for public display."

That's me. I puff out my now-nonexistent chest in pride. Or try to. It works in my head, anyway.

"I see. If they're all that far gone they're from the war, right?" This guy's voice keeps pushing a button in my memory. Like maybe I knew him in some other time or place. I try to place him in my mind, but I'm starting to drop back into the dull, endless voids of a non-morphling induced coma. If it was morphling induced then I'd be all happy and woozy with not a care in the world, much less a care of who's outside my room.

I struggle to stay afloat, but only because if I go off the deep end I'll be stuck in a limbo between sleep and awareness. These men are more interesting.

But there's silence for a few moments.

"What is it?" the first voice asks.

"Who's in here?" the familiar one says with a sharp edge.

Maybe there'll be a fight. I have to stay up for this.

"The initials are J.M….I don't know anything else, I don't work up here."

J.M., that's me. Now assigned not even to "girl tribute from 7," but just "J.M." My invisible chest puffs out even more.

"Let me in."

"I told you, I don't work up here, I don't have authorization, can we get a move on? I don't like it here."

"Of course you don't like it up here, with the scary little people, do you? Have you ever thought who might be behind these doors? No? Of course you didn't. Your world is perfect and full of sunshine and rainbows now, isn't it? Of course it is. Let me in the damn door before I find a way to break it down myself!"

This is an interesting turn of events. I decide that I like Mr. Mysterious Voice. It's also very attractive. Looks like I'm having visitors today.

Who I assume to be the other guy fumbles with his keys for a second and then unlocks the door. It swings open, bringing a rush of hot, but fresh, air with it. Goddamn it, I wish I could look up. This is more exciting than when the former Avoxes changed my sheets last week. Who is this guy?

Then I hear a strangled scream, coming from Mr. Interesting. He repeats himself, looking like a fool, until his partner smacks him on the back to shut him up. I still can't see them, but I'm anxious to, because I need to know if I should scream myself or not.

When he peers over at me, coming into my line of view, I realize that I do need to scream, because Mr. Interesting now has a name and a place in my memory.

Gale Hawthorne.

* * *

We go back and forth screaming for a couple of minutes until Hawthorne gets whacked on the back again and I stop for breath. My throat already feels cracked and dry. I haven't used it for anything other than swallowing in who knows how long.

I'm panting, and he looks like he's going to have a mental breakdown. If I could form a word or two, I'd let him know that it's not so bad once you get used to them, that hyperventilating and passing out becomes second nature after a couple rounds of it. But I can't talk and he doesn't look like he's in much shape to be hearing anything of the sort, either.

The other guy leans over me, peering with an odd sense of curiosity. Since I can see him now, I realize he's Hawthorne's younger brother whose name I do not know.

"Who is this?" he asks, unnerved by Hawthorne's and my little bout of screaming.

Hawthorne breathes deeply for a couple of seconds, seemingly calming himself down. "What the hell is she doing here?" he exclaims, louder than I've ever heard him before.

Little Brother blinks. "I can't exactly answer that until I know who she is." Then he looks at me expectantly. I have no clue what this guy wants.

Hawthorne turns sharply away from his brother and grabs me by my shoulders, his temper getting the best of him, heaving again. "Why are you here? What's wrong with you, why do you look so…" he trails off, reminding me of old Nuts from way back when. As he scans my sickly, addicted body with a look of disgust, Hawthorne, Version-Point-2 stomps the cold, hard, white-cemented ground, hollering like a wild man. "Who is this girl?"

Hawthorne just looks at me expectantly, his disgust turning to fear. "What have they done to you?"

Hawthorne is scaring me. I don't think I've ever seen him look the way he is now. I don't know him well, but I have seen him in pretty compromising positions.

Damn it. Not like _that_.

Since he's scaring me so damn badly I figure I might as well try and gurgle out a word. "Gahdonenoooh."

This is embarrassing. And sad. All I know how to do now is scream.

He blinks, trying to register my hodgepodge of syllables. Then he looks as if he's about to cry. And then he turns to Mini-Hawthorne and says, "You need to get me her doctors, the head of this floor, the mayor of Thirteen, whoever."

Brother Hawthorne blinks himself. "Gale, I don't…"

"Now!" Hawthorne screams.

The kid runs out of the room, and Hawthorne turns back to me. "Don't try and talk anymore, you'll just hurt yourself. Go to sleep, you'll be out soon enough." He seems ten times colder now than he was before he barked at his brother. He gets up and starts pacing the room, back and forth.

And then, once the room settles into nothing but the soft _pat-pat-pat_ of Hawthorne's footsteps, the foreign drugs take over and pull me down into a strange and obtuse world.

* * *

**So...the plot actually begins. :P Do you like it? Questions? Comments? Thanks for reading. :)**


End file.
